


Mirror, Mirror

by chemiglee



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemiglee/pseuds/chemiglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine and his father are more alike than they realize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\----- 

The ’57 Chevy was his dream, but it always languished there, near the back of the garage, curvy and doe-eyed, like Cleopatra.   His dad bought that wreck of a car on impulse, waiting until the very end of that estate auction to hold up his card:  “It’s up to us to restore Cleopatra to her glory,” he decided.  “Someone’s got to make sure we don’t forget the past.  If it’s not me,  _no one_  else will.”  He left that dramatic pause there, hanging in the air, and turned his eyes back to the road as they dragged that clunker back to the house behind them.  Just in time:  fourteen-year old Mike discreetly rolled his eyes and dreamed of catching plays on the field at OSU instead, running his fingers over the worn stitches of his football.  Once they got home, they unhooked the trailer, draped the sheet over it, and that was that. 

“We’ll work on it another time,” Dad decided.  “You’ve got to get your homework done, and I’ve got to alphabetize my jazz records.”

Mike swallowed his hot words.  Weird, ridiculous, melodramatic Dad with his love for music, music, music and his distaste for everything that was  _real_.

Dad had his head in the clouds, like, most of the time.  He’d lose hours upon hours just playing Granddad’s piano, or singing, and while he had a job – a good job – he seemed perfectly happy to roll along, gathering no moss, without striving for a promotion or starting a second business or something that would make everyone’s lives, and their money issues, easier to bear.  It was all  _dreams_  with him.   That car, for example.  He had this fantasy that they’d fix it up and then they’d go take it for a spin, blasting some super-old fashioned sixties tune.  Maybe – Mike thought, with horror – something  _older_  than that.  Elvis?  Frank Sinatra?    _Classical_?  Mike wondered, with irritation, why his dad wouldn’t go for anything more modern and updated, like KISS or Def Leppard or something with a harder edge to it, instead of those golden oldies, which were smooth, yeah, but kind of boring. 

So, Dad would play, and play, and in the meantime that ’57 Chevy would sit there, gathering dust, underneath its cloth.  Mike had thought, at first, that they’d fix it up together, get to know each other better, but, like a butterfly, Dad would fly off to visit other distractions even while Mike was trying to bring up the subject of the car.   Mike did want to work on it – it was his idea to go to the auction in the first place, because he liked the thought of open roads and dreams lounging there, just beyond the horizon, and the metal gears and engine underneath the hood, working together in perfect harmony as he and the car reached their goal – but Dad would rather do, well, anything else.  And it was hard to talk to him about it, because they were so different.  Even when Dad would say things like “I love you so much, son,” in that effusive way of his, Mike would get uncomfortable.  It was true, and it was nice to hear it, but surely it wasn’t important to have to say it all the time.  But with every misunderstanding, every ill-taken tone of voice, every poorly chosen word between them, Mike feels the gulf between him and Dad begin to grow.  Dad, near the end, gets lost.  Mike loses him more with every year that passes.

Mike’s resentment really wasn’t the car.   Mike loved his dad.  He did.  He just didn’t get him.  But, to be fair, maybe his dad didn’t get him, either. 

\----- 

When his second son, his baby boy, tells them that he’s gay, the first thing Michael wants to do is to cry.  (And it’s not because he doesn’t love him.  He does.)  No, Michael wants to cry, because he’s afraid.  The world is a harsh place, and all Michael wants to do is to cradle him in this fuzzy blue blanket and hide him away from the world. And he’s astonished, too:  he wonders if he should have figured it out a long time ago.   But that’s normal, sort of.  Blaine has always been a bit of a mystery, because, well, he’s Dad, and Dad was in many ways a mystery to him, too.

Blaine makes his declaration in a proud voice, but there’s a little quaver underneath it;  there’s that vulnerability,  that desperate, pleading love that Michael and Anna see in his eyes, reflected in each other’s eyes, too.  Michael remembers that same look on Dad’s own face, the day he came home and told Mom that he’d lost all their life savings in a get-rich-quick scheme (fake shares in a fake gold mine):    _I love you, I did this for you_ , except that Blaine didn’t do this – he just is.  Just as Dad was, and how he couldn’t help but be himself. 

From the day both his sons were born,  Michael knew perfectly well whose legacy they inherited, but it still didn’t prevent him from demanding the best from them.  He knew life marched on even if your dreams didn’t.  That bad knee had stopped his football dreams forever, so it was Columbia, instead, and then on to business school, but just because he’d changed his dream didn’t mean he couldn’t be successful at his new one.  He had the same aspirations for both of his sons.  Dreams were important to strive for. 

To get where they wanted to be meant they needed to be supported. Supporting them meant that they had to have money, too, so he worked long hours, and got promoted, again and again.  Michael and Anna did anything they could to make sure that everyone was well taken care of:  good schools, good extracurriculars, music lessons, sports.  He just called that having standards.  And Cooper and Blaine both got the benefit of that sort of upbringing – he can tell.  They’re both whip-smart, tenacious, loving boys, even if they are both a little overdramatic, and even if they both chafe, at times, under his exacting care. 

And, with pride, he saw them both grow:  they both got into football, and Blaine into robots, and he says nothing when Cooper and Blaine start putting on shows around the neighborhood, because, well, that’s Dad, too.  Dad, and his talent.  Dad, and his dreams, although Michael’s pretty sure Blaine (in particular) gets his ambition and go-get-it attitude from  _him_ , and he’s really proud of that.  

He knows a lot of that feeling gets lost in translation, though.  It’s too hard to say all of that, because words are so limiting.  Words aren’t enough to express the universe contained inside of them, just as it’s two very different things to  _describe_  a pass, and then  _experience_  the pass as it soars through the air, winningly, towards the goal posts.  It’s too hard to say  _I love you, and you’re okay,_ because it means too much.  He’d rather show his love in actions, not words, but Blaine’s wired the other way, and that makes communicating difficult.

When Blaine does make his declaration, after Michael suppresses the instinct to cry or wrap Blaine up in a cocoon of protection, Michael opens his mouth and nothing comes out.  A flood of shame follows, because he’s a man, but he’s not man enough to tell his son that he loves him, no matter what.  And it turns out that the absence of words is all it takes to hurt his son.  Blaine’s wounded.  His face  _falls_.  That sliver of time freezes, and it holds him, trapped, in its toils.  It takes Anna’s big hug to wake Michael up, and he, too, makes his way to his son and stutters, hesitatingly, “Blaine, when you were born, I held you in my arms and I told you I’d love and protect you forever. This hasn’t changed anything. I still do.” 

(Even after the dance incident, when Michael, more than ever, wants to keep Blaine nice and safe and tucked away from the ugliness of other people’s hatred, Michael thinks he can see Blaine resenting him still. Maybe Blaine thinks his dad thinks it’s Blaine’s fault for being the way he is.  He doesn’t know for sure.  Everything from that time is a blur.) 

Whatever it is, it seems that the damage is done.  Michael can tell.  So, when he presses his son to join him in working over that dusty ’57 Chevy, they work together, sure, but it’s a silent business.  It’s a silent two summers, actually.  They work together so well, too, which somehow makes everything worse.  They each know what to do.  Blaine or Michael consult the plans.  Blaine goes with Michael to buy the parts, and they pass each other the tools and the oil and they troubleshoot, in neutral voices, when something goes wrong.  All along, Blaine simmers with something, resentment, maybe.  Michael struggles with confusion.  Surely Blaine can understand he’s trying to reach him, but there are times when Dad’s disappointment flashes across Blaine’s face and something in Michael’s heart twists – and twists.   How else is he going to tell his son he loves him?  Words just aren’t enough.  

And as that ’57 Chevy starts losing the shiny patina of a dream and slowly, surely, becomes reality – a beautiful machine with shining rims and new blue paint, working gears and a motor that purrs – Michael’s not sure whether he’s trying to mend his relationship with Blaine or his relationship with his long-gone Dad, but he  _is_  sure that neither one is improving.  

\----- 

McKinley, it seems, is the factor that helps make things between Michael and his son better, over time – even if it’s not always a smooth path.

Michael approves of Kurt, even if their relationship does seem to wrap Blaine completely up in more shiny dreams.  Kurt has a sense of right and wrong that Michael likes, and they sing so well together.  Dad would approve of Kurt, too. Kurt has layers to him, just like he does, and even though he doesn’t struggle with expressing himself, he appreciates that Blaine can relate to him.   Kurt’s a little like Anna, come to think of it.  Blaine’s always had his friends at Dalton, but Kurt gets him in a way no one else seems to. 

One night, after Kurt goes home, Michael says, honestly, “He’s a nice boy, Blaine,” and for the first time in a long time, Blaine  _smiles_  at him, like there’s never going to be a bigger joy in life than his father’s approval.  So, it seems like a good idea to let Blaine go to McKinley, because he’d be exposed to a more diverse group of people, and because Kurt seems to do him good.  And when Michael and Anna say yes, Blaine gives them both that same, wide, Dad-like smile.   He joins their Glee club, and he struggles to fit in – Michael does hear bits and pieces of Blaine’s end of conversations on his phone, sometimes – but Blaine seems happier, overall, at McKinley, than anywhere else.   Even Dalton.   And then Blaine brings home more friends:  all of those Glee kids, with dramatics and talent that easily rival Dad’s;  Sam, whose friendship, Michael can tell, has made Blaine heal in a way no other friendship ever has; and Tina, who applies balm to Blaine’s hurts in places where Sam wasn’t able to reach. 

Michael likes all of them, and he makes sure to broach the subject, after they help him clean up the den:  “They’re really good kids, Blaine,”  and every time,  Blaine gives him that smile again, and it feels like a little bit of more healing is taking place, bit by bit.  It’s difficult, sometimes.  It feels repetitive to say the same things over and over.  And there are times when Michael hits the wall of  _I don’t get this kid_  when it feels like their relationship takes three steps back instead of one step forward, like that whole credit fiasco (which makes Michael grit his teeth, every time).   But it helps, a bit.  They start to talk, and Blaine, tellingly, starts approaching him with questions and advice – and even though he doesn’t always like what Michael says, at least they’re talking now.

But he loves his kid.  He always did, but it’s getting easier and easier to tell him.  Michael just wishes he’d had the courage to tell Dad all the things he is now trying to tell Blaine.

\----- 

When Anna broaches the subject of a graduation present, Michael knows what Blaine is going to get.  It’s the ’57 Chevy.  It can be nothing else.  But when Michael makes this pronouncement, Blaine, graciously, turns it down in that old-world, polite way and he hits the wall, again -

“The least you can do is accept it, Blaine,” Michael rages.  “We worked on it  _together_.”

“It was your car, Dad,” Blaine snaps. “Your dream.  Not mine.”

“Why?”

“You wanted me to turn straight,” and Blaine’s voice is reaching those higher registers that keen with distress and histrionics about to peak. Michael can’t, just  _can’t_ , with this.  “You thought working on that car would make me turn straight and I’m not taking that from you, Dad, I’m not.  How do I know you’re not trying to do that now?  Why can’t you just approve of me?”

(Is he talking about that ring?  Michael and Anna do not approve of that and they tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s too young. He’s got to go to college and start his music career.   And Blaine knows, very well, that they don’t approve, but he doesn’t care.  It’s obvious.  Michael wouldn’t be surprised if Blaine did the thing after all.  Dad was also very, very stubborn.)

All of that flashes in his mind’s eye while Blaine glares at him and Michael stares back, dumbfounded, just as he was on that long-ago day when Blaine told them he was gay.  But he’s not going to lose Blaine – he just won’t.  He’s not going to lose Dad.  Not again.

“I’m not, Blaine.”  Michael tries to keep his voice controlled and even.  “You know that’s not what this is.  We love you, gay or straight or anything else.  That’s never changed.”

“Then what?”  Blaine says.  He hears, yes, but he doesn’t understand, not when he’s so stressed. 

“Are you still angry about that?  About the car?  You – you weren’t happy those two summers we worked on the car -”

“Yes, Dad,” Blaine paces up and down, the high color staining his cheeks, as he rants.  “You say you like Kurt, but you don’t want me to propose to him.  You’d rather I proposed to Rachel or someone else, a girl. That’s got to be it.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”  Michael says, absolutely astonished.  “You don’t even make any sense, son.”

“I don’t make any sense?  _I_  don’t make any sense?”

“You’re eighteen.  You’re not ready for this level of commitment at all.  At all.”

“Eighteen year olds get married all the time,” Blaine protests.  “Finn and Rachel were going to – “

“And they didn’t,” Michael says, emphatically.  “You’re not.”

“Your dad got married when he was eighteen,” Blaine charges. 

Michael stumbles backward and falls into an armchair.  He looks up at his son.  There’s Dad, stubborn, stuffed full of adolescent dreams, printed plainly on Blaine’s face.   There’s a huge mountain, or molehill, here – but he makes the decision, right there, to climb it.   Michael gulps.

“Son, that was a different time.  You could get married early, have kids right away, and support everyone on an entry-level salary.   Now, you’ve got to go to college and start your career first.  For security,  if for nothing else.  You can marry Kurt later.”

“Your problems with Granddad shouldn’t affect my decisions _,_ ” Blaine protests.

“I know,” Michael says, weakly.  “I know you.  You’ll do what you’ll do.  You’re just like Granddad, is my problem.”

“Look,” Blaine says, after a pause.  He finds another chair and pulls it up to face his father.  The gesture is oddly reminiscent of another scene, from years ago, when Dad had wanted to buy those flimsy gold shares and Michael had wanted to throw them away; that decision hadn’t made any sense, it hadn’t.   Everything about Blaine’s movements sends him back to that scene and it sends a panicky frisson up and down Michael’s spine.    “I have to take this chance or I’ll lose it.  I can’t lose him again.  I can’t.”

“What if you regret it?”

“I won’t.  We don’t have to get married right away.  You know that, right?”

“How do you know this isn’t a mistake?”

“It isn’t,” and Blaine gives him that  _smile_.  “You raised me, Dad, not Granddad.   _You_.   You don’t make mistakes.”

The sincerity of those four little words bowls Michael over and leaves silence in its wake, but tears gather in his eyes before he can stop them:  four little words that tell Michael, finally, all of what Blaine feels for his father.  For  _him_.  If Michael had had this moment, again, with his Dad, he might not have used those words – because Lord knows, Dad made mistakes.  So many.  (Blaine will, too.  Michael still wants to stop him and wrap him up in a cocoon, away from the world, but he knows he can’t.  And he won’t.  He’s got to trust him, and let him go, and Michael finds – oh my god, he finds – that he does. He can.)

Michael wishes that he could have said this to his Dad.  Three even smaller words that might have given Dad some comfort before he died in that hospital bed, bow-tied to the end, while Michael had held his hand, lips tight and pressed, wishing he could give breath to it.   Now, he thought it might be hard, but… it isn’t.  “So,” he coughs, “I love you, son.  You know that, right? No matter what happens.  Even – even if we don’t like it.  Even if this is a mistake.”  When that comes out, he can’t, for once, stop the emotion in his voice.   Blaine hears it.  He does, and that knowing  _smile_  says it all.

“I know you do.”  Blaine bobs his head.  It’s so endearing.  “It’s not a mistake, but I’ll take the car.  And thank you. Dad.”

“Do you know why I wanted you to work on the car with me?”  Michael asks, carefully.

“It wasn’t – it wasn’t that you wanted me to be straight.  Was it?  I thought it was – because I wanted to believe it was.”

“No.  No, son, it wasn’t.  I think you know why I did.”

The silence between them, now, is a comfortable one.  Blaine’s the first one to break it.  “Yeah, I do.  Now, I do.”  Blaine flicks his tongue over his lips.  “I think, maybe, we should go talk to Granddad.  In the Chevy.  Now.”

“If you drive,” he says, half-jokingly.  He smiles at Blaine, and Blaine looks startled at the expression on his father’s face.  Michael, for his part, knows what Blaine saw, and he doesn’t resent it like he might have done in years past.    “I’ve got a lot of things to say to him, and I have to make sure I say them right.”  He claps his hand on Blaine’s shoulder, and Blaine pats it, reassuringly, as they walk, together, out towards the car. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaction ficlet to 5.01. Blaine's father finds out about the proposal - after it happens.

"It's the headmaster at Dalton," Anna whispered, one hand over the talk end of her phone. "He  _did_  it."

Michael drooped his head and sighed, too. Right above the coatrack was a picture of Cooper and Blaine as kids, smiling, looking carefree. If only their parents could be carefree for once. Dad always was, but – Michael suppressed the thought before it came to fruition; today was the tenth anniversary of when they'd had to put Dad in hospice, but today was also going to be the day they'd need to handle the aftermath of  _this_. When he finally spoke, he sounded tired, even to himself. "Didn't we tell him he's too young to ask Kurt to marry him?"

"Then he reminded you of  _your_  father and how  _he_  got married at eighteen." Anna gave him Blaine's playful smile. Michael caught his breath. "You go call your son. I'll keep talking to Royce."

Michael shook his head and thumbed through his contacts. Blaine.  _He's gonna be the death of me_.

"Dad? Dad?" Blaine sounded distracted and happy. Michael could hear the clink of plates and silverware and teenager voices talking, excited and bright, and Sam's voice closest to the phone, too cheerful:  _Woooo!_

"Blaine? Blaine? Where are you?" Michael fights to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He'd promised himself he wouldn't lose Blaine, and now it felt like Blaine was holding him at arm's length again, or maybe that was him, projecting on his son. "Come home. We need to talk."

"We're at BreadstiX," Blaine replies, breathless. "We're celebrating. Wait, I'll go outside, hang on a sec – " and while his son drops the phone, Michael suddenly remembers all of Blaine's late nights, even later than usual, more overheard references to Haverbrook and Vocal Adrenaline and the bill. That bill which Anna had found, shredded carefully into the trash, for – goddamn – a  _ring_ , probably from the funds Dad had left Blaine when he died. Shit, why hadn't they put the pieces together back then? And though his son's not yet back on, Michael's voice is a bit higher this time, which he hates: "Blaine! Why didn't you tell us?"

"Tell you I was going to do it?" and Blaine sounds petulant and unrepentant. Michael remembers Blaine actually getting caught, one time, when he was seven, literally with his hands in Anna's cookie jar. He can see the look on his son's face now. Like Dad's. "I got engaged, Dad! Aren't you happy for me?"

"Why didn't you tell us this was happening now?" Michael puts the right amount of anger in his voice, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Michael  _knows_  why. He lets Blaine finish explaining, though. Goddamn, Blaine sounds cheeky. "I told you I was going to propose."

"Yes, but we told you we thought it was too soon!"

"You knew why," Blaine says, suddenly quiet. His voice sounds like all the air got punched out of a balloon. "Life's temporary, Dad. I thought you'd know – this is the day, you know, the day Granddad went away, and how sudden it all was when he got sick. I just wanted Kurt and I to be sure, and now we  _are_ , and we couldn't be happier."

"Yes, I can see that," Michael replies. He now sounds cooler, too: cooler heads prevailing. "But didn't you think your mother and I would want to be there?"

"You and Mom told me you didn't approve," Blaine says, sounding confused. "I thought I'd do it before you could actually  _stop_  us."

"Why would we want to stop you? We can't."

The pause over the line is poignant. "You and Mom didn't want to stop us?"

"Mom and I wanted you to  _think_  about this, especially because you two have so much time in front of you. You have your whole lives to talk and be together."

"But we don't," Blaine says patiently. "You know that. We don't."

Michael bites his lip. Somewhere in his head echoes two gun shots:  _bang_ , a terrible, fearful, tense silence, then  _bang_ , and then the vision of a man, a faded shadow of himself, lying prone and helpless and swathed in rough white sheets. "I understand, son. I do. But. I wish you could have told us so we could be there."  _Because I don't want to lose you, either, son, and this – this is a moment we would have wanted to remember, forever, too_.

"Yeah." Blaine is quiet. "I'm sorry, Dad. You're right."

"Look," Michael says, "Bring Kurt over, and his father, and we'll have a family dinner. A real proper one."

"You mean it, Dad?"

"Of course. But – "

"Yeah, I know. You still don't think this is a good idea."

"No, I don't. But – we understand."

"It's okay," Blaine says, strength renewed. "We'll be all right, Dad, you and Mom will see."

"We've always known you two will be all right," Michael says, and he laughs. It feels so  _good_.

"You sound like Granddad," Blaine smiles. "I'll fix it all up. Thanks, Dad."

"Bye, Blaine. Tell Kurt for us – congratulations."

"I will. I love him. Dad."

"I know. I love you, too."


End file.
